Fragile Correspondance
by KBRC
Summary: Sherlock and Irene, in emails. After his return to London after his "death," Sherlock gets an email form Irene with surprising news. Established (well sort of) Sherlock/Irene. T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

First Attempted at Sherlock Fanficiton, I hope I did the fandom justice. I've been on break, winter holiday, and working on a different and much longer Sherlock fic, i guess with all that in my brain this popped into my head. Hope you enjoy, and pardon any americanisms!

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l1k2j3h4g5f6d7s8a9

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

March 18, 2012

Sherlock, I know you prefer to text, but this is a bit longer message. I'd do it in person, but well, we both know that isn't an option at the moment.

I'm pregnant. It's yours. I'm going to keep it. I don't expect you to be involved, but I will keep you updated if you like. I might even send photos. Just thought you should know…

Don't try to trace me Sherlock, I know you will anyway but please don't.

-IA

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: l1k2j3h4g5f6d7s8a9

March 24, 2012

I'm even sure this email address still exists.

You're sure it's mine? How far along are you? Did you know when I left?

-SH

PS: I couldn't trace you (yes I tried). Nice work routing that message, I suppose I could send it to Mycroft but that wouldn't be a good idea.

lala1234

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

March 28, 2012

I'm taking your questions as meaning you want to be updated.

I'm sure it's yours. I went to the doctor today, I'm at 10 weeks. Which means it was conceived out last night together, so no I didn't know before you left. They can't tell the gender until 18 weeks apparently, but I hope it's a boy. A little mini Sherlock… anyway I'm sending you the ultrasound picture.

Also, don't waste your time tracing me dear, and reply to this account.

-IA

1 attachment-

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: lala1234

March 28, 2012

Well at least you're getting some sort of medical care; although that image is pretty low quality (did you take it with your phone? Or was it just a poor ultrasound?).

-SH

AStudyInPink

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

March 29,2012

I took it with my phone you sod, my medical care is top notch thank you very much.

Since I promised to keep you updated, I'll brief you on my medical condition (if you don't care you can just ignore this). The doctor said I was lucky to have as little morning sickness as I did, which was nothing really. At ten weeks the baby (I'm going to assume you deleted anything related to reproduction) is about the size of a peanut. The "bump" isn't really a bump right now, its not really noticeable. They say I'm a bit underweight, but not to be any sort of danger, I was a small baby so it could just be genetics, and well you know my eating habits…

Oh and John's blog post for you last case is hilarious, did you really get sprayed with mace?

-IA

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: AStudyInPink

April 3,2012

I'm glad you're being properly cared for Irene, and that you're not too uncomfortable.

I feel like John, but _eat something Woman._ I don't need you killing yourself with this, I wouldn't want to waste all that effort saving you ;) Plus, the "peanut" needs food.

And yes sadly I did get maced. She missed my eyes though, just got a skin reaction.

And why are you using the names of cases in the blog as your email?

-SH

TheBlindBanker

To: Sherlock Holmes

April 27,2012

14 weeks today. I can actually see the bump now, had to size up :) Things are good, no more morning sickness and I'm officially out of the woods for a miscarriage. "Peanut" (I can't believe you called it that!) is now a "Lemon." I'm eating too, but my weight gain is still lower than it should be.

BTW I'm in the second trimester now, Google what that means.

Hope your rash heals darling.

-IA

1 attachment:

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: TheBlindBanker

April 28, 2012

Lemon… really? What is with all the foods? It looks like a blob, but at least your picture was clear.

According to the Internet, second trimester comes with increases libido. I assume that's what you meant, and I can't be of help (especially since I don't know where you are:( ).

-SH

TheGreatGame

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

May 25, 2012

I FIND OUT THE GENDER TOMORROW! Do you have a preference?

-IA

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: TheGreatGame

May 25, 2012

Someone's excited… :)

I don't have a preference.

And Albania? Really? Please tell me you are not actually flitting through random and potentially dangerous countries in Europe.

-SH

TheGreatGame

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

May 26, 2012

I know the gender. Do you want to? And official due date is November 9, 2012.

And I'm not telling you where I am. That's part of the fun, but I won't make any promises regarding potentially dangerous countries, business is business after all.

-IA

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: TheGreatGame

May 26, 2012

I don't like the idea of you in dangerous locations Irene. And you're not still doing _that_ are you? You have a child to protect remember.

And yes I want to know.

-SH

AScandalInBelgravia

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

May 27, 2012

It's a boy. I guess we have a little Hamish.

If I didn't know better I'd think you were worried about me. And no I'm not doing _that_; pregnancy isn't exactly great for a dominatrix. I've moved on the bigger and better things.

-IA

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: AScandalInBelgravia

May 27, 2012

John would be so pleased. Do I even want to now what you're doing?

-SH

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: AScandalInBelgravia

June 29, 2012

Irene? You didn't email me this month, you have had a check up every four weeks around this time, and you update me. Are you all right?

-SH

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: AScandalInBelgravia

July 3, 2012

Irene?

-SH

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: AScandalInBelgravia

July 15, 2012

Email me back. I need to now you're ok.

I'm going to call Mycroft if I don't get a reply.

-SH

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: AScandalInBelgravia

July 29, 2012

Last chance. I'm calling in the cavalry.

-SH

HOUND 1&

Sherlock Holmes .uk

July 29, 2012

Sorry, ran into a spot of trouble and had to go off grid for a while. 26 weeks yesterday, just had a check up. I'm underweight now (probably the stress of being on the run) so the doctor gave me some food guidelines. I should be fine. We're safe now, no need to worry.

Hamish is now the size of head of lettuce (more food), and the bump is definitely visible.

I'm sending you the ultrasound pics (yesterday's and the 18 week check- forgot to attach those) and a picture of the bump. The doctor was kind enough to take one, so you can see me too:)

-IA

4 attachments: US-18w, US-26w, , and

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: HOUND 1&

July 30, 2012

DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN.

I nearly called Mycroft. Do you know the kind of trouble we would have been in?!

You're very cute with the bump, and Hamish is no longer a blob. More of an alien now actually.

Irene, please take care of yourself.

-SH

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

August 28, 2012

You called me cute; I'd say you care Mr Holmes

30 weeks… I feel like a whale. He moves now, always waking me up. I'm back in the healthy weight range now, so no more scares. Calling our son and alien is not very nice Sherlock; I think he's cute.

Sherlock, next time I go on the run please don't freak out and call you brother. I will be fine. No matter how fun it would be for Mycroft to be fully up to date on our… situation, I don't want to think about the trouble we'd be in. so calm down dear.

I'm sending you more pictures. They did one of those 3D imaging things of him.

-IA

6 attachments: , , . , ,

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To:

August 30, 2012

I here Italy is wonderful this time of year. You're getting creative with those usernames, bored?

You don't look like a whale. Based on my research you're not a large as the average, so don't worry, but it's good your weight is healthy once again.

Of curse you think he's cute, maternal instinct are in full effect now and you have a natural reaction to think he's "cute."

Irene, if your current "business" is endangering you and your health, please don't continue.

-SH

H.A.M.I.S.H_H

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

September 26, 2012

34 weeks- butternut squash size apparently. Nothing really to report, but I've started cutting back on business, don't want anything coming up in the next couple months for obvious reasons.

How's the case going? I heard you hit a wall at some art forgery dealer?

-IA

1 Attachment:

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: H.A.M.I.S.H_H

September 27, 2012

How did you know about that case! John hasn't blogged about that yet, it's still classified.

Are you doing all right? The last email was pretty short.

-SH

returnthecoat .uk

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

October 26, 2012

38 weeks today, it could be any day now. Were you born early? I was… they say that increases the chance of Hamish being born early too. Probably more if you were as well.

I'm doing all right, a little sick of the constant moving around. I think I found a place we can stay for a while though, so that's good. I still feel like a whale and me feet are killing me- I blame you.

Heard you're working with the CIA on this case… I have my sources ;)

-IA

PS: do you have a preference for middle names?

2 Attachments: ,

Sherlock Holmes . .uk

To: returnthecoat .uk

October 26, 2012

That last address was in the UK. Is your "safe place" in the UK? God Irene, you need to stay out of England!

And yes I was born early, 3 weeks actually.

The CIA will not be pleased to now they have an information leak, good thing I'm not telling them.

-SH

PS: you're doing the work, you can name him. Just not anything outrageous please.

returnthecoat .uk

To: Sherlock Holmes .uk

October 28, 2012

Meet your son, Hamish Alexander Adler-Holmes. 2750g, born at 3am in the bloody morning. 8 hours of labor… I could kill you.

He's beautiful, has your eyes (and let's hope he gets those cheekbones too).

-IA

12 attachments: , …

Sherlock Holmes .uk

To: returnthecoat .uk

October 29, 2012

Considering it was the 29th when I received that message, I'm going to assume you are not actually in the UK.

He's gorgeous Irene, thank you for so many photos. He picture of the two of you asleep is my favorite. I wanted to print it, but well… John.

Be safe.

-SH

* * *

this pairing really gets me to write! Hope you enjoyed!

I intend to update this, each chapter a year or so of Hamish's life.

-KBRC


	2. Chapter 2

**_This got lost somehow, and I just found it. So freaking sorry for the update time! (that was inexcusable I am so so sorry). Also, I love all those who reviewed- I have never gotten this many and it made me jump for joy every new one- and favorited and followed. Oh, in regards to Shadow Puppets, I'm reorganizing it, there are 15 chapter and no outline, something must be done!But i will update that once i get it sorted. I'll shut up now, enjoy._**

Thespeckledblond zoho. br

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

November 5, 2012

They warn you, you now, about children. How loud they are. Such small beings, you'd think such a loud and continuous amount of noise would be too much for them. I never listened of course; I never thought I'd be having children. But here I am with Sherlock Holmes' child of all things! And said child is very loud…

Don't get me wrong I love our son beyond measure, and he is my world. But I need to sleep….

Now that my weekly rant to you is over, ill update you on daily life here.

It's pretty slow actually. I brought him home from the hospital earlier this week, not without what the nurse assured me was a "proper new mother freak out." I managed not to kill us both on the way home, although I'm not sure how. I'm a wreck, and loving it… he's amazing. So amazing.

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: Thespeckledblond zoho. br

November 6, 2012

Are you two feeling all right and everything? According to my research sleep deprivation is common in the first few months. Why did you drive yourself back? Couldn't someone have driven you, or taken a cab? Be safe Irene.

-SH

coventryCC gmail. fj

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

November 29, 2012

We're fine. I'm less exhausted than most of the mums I meet, even those with older children. A life on the run, and three years spent with you (you really don't sleep much do you?) is surprisingly good training. The poor woman next to me in line when I was buying nappies looked like a living zombie! Hamish has calmed down a lot this week; he's much quieter now. I guess he gets that pensive look from you.

Oh and Sherlock, you're very cute when you worry. I don't have anyone to drive me anywhere because I don't want to hire anyone or… well get to close. Never know when I'll need to run off again (with Hal of course).

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

to: coventryCC gmail. fj

November 30, 2012

Good to know someone appreciates my habits… might have to use that in my list of reasons why John should stop trying to get me to sleep like a normal person. Its good to know you still stand leagues above everyone else, just don't go puling down to much attention. We don't want another Monaco situation on our hands (I believe that model still has a grudge against you).

Stop calling me cute. Hamish is cute, puppies are cute, and I am not cute.

You're still prepared to run? I suppose I shouldn't suspect anything less, your survival instinct served us quite well. Just… I'd prefer to know you and Hamish were safe and not flitting across the globe.

-SH

HanselGretle zooink . ht

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

January 12, 2013

Sorry, I've been busy here. Went back to work, only part time. Hamish is settling in quite nicely at the flat, I was a bit worried about how quiet he is but the doctor assured me he is in fact fine. Sometimes I wish I could borrow John, it would be nice to have someone I trust, even I'm certain he does not trust me, to keep an eye on him. But as that's not possible, I might be a bot excessive with the appointments. I'll send you more photos; Hal looks so much like you. Sometimes I can picture you as a child when I see him. You wouldn't happen to be able to send me any photos of little Sherlock would you? I'd love to see if the resemblance is as uncanny as I imagine.

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: HanselGretle zooink. ht

January 13, 2013

YOU ARE NOT GETTING YOUR HANDS ON THOSE. No way. I would burn them all if I could, but Mycroft has the majority hidden away. I suppose the one benefit is that as long as he won't give them to me, he also won't give them to you.

-SH

crownjwel hotmail. pe

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

January 15, 2013

Oh don't be a baby; I'm sure you were terribly cute

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: crownjewl hotmail. pe

January 17, 2013

You will never know. How about you? Do you have any photos I could use against the Queen of Blackmail herself? (Me asking also means that my Internet search turned up nothing, but then again I'm fairly sure Irene isn't your real name).

-SH

iceeeeeeman yahoo. om

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

January 23, 2013

Sherlock, stop bringing up questions about my past. Irene is the realest name I have, the one you and our son know me as. And as far as photos, if there were any photos of me as a child (I'm not sure if there were to be honest) they no longer exist.

-IA

iceeeeeeman yahoo. om

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

February 13, 2013

Sherlock? I didn't mean to offend I just can't… the past is in the past.

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: iceeeeeeman yahoo. om

March 10, 2013

Ok.

-SH

juegojuego .com

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

March 23, 2013

So I take it we're ok now. Well, Hal is doing great He'll be 5 months old soon. He has an intense fascination with a textbook he found in the house. It reminds me of your laser focus during research, I pull him away and he starts crying. He also is obsessed with my hair. Yesterday he deftly undid a very complicated updo in less than a minute. He likes to wake me up by tugging on it… :(

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: juegojuego .com

March 23, 2013

Haha now you know what it's like. Pulling on people's hair is not nice Irene.

-SH

juegojuego .com

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

March 25, 2013

Oh but you like it ;)

-IA

HaPpYbIrThDaY123

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

April 29, 2013

Hamish is 6 months old today, not that that's a date of any significance in reality. I think I might bore you if I go into all the little details of our life… so I sent you a quick video. We went to the park and he was on the swings and it was so sweet I had to show it to you.

Oh also, do not get involved in any investigations involving the Deustche Bank. If you can keep your brother out of it too.

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: HaPpYbIrThDaY123

April 29, 2013

Thank you for the video. I ended up watching on my mobile in a cab to keep John from finding it. The cabbie rather enjoyed that I think…He's growing up so fast; he looks quite animated on the swings and very happy. You're a great mother Irene; I just wish I… its better this way isn't it? Safer.

Happy 6 months Hamish.

You're asking me to stay away from any and all investigations involving the Deustche Bank? What are you planning Irene? Mycroft will investigate what he investigates; I have no control over it. I will refrain from offering my help, but that's all. I thought you were done putting yourself in danger.

-SH

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: HaPpYbIrThDaY123

April 29, 2013

35,000,000 euro in failed investments to phantom companies that only a select few know don't actually exist. Your new occupation in "part-time" fraud and large-scale theft?! Mycroft is one of a select few even aware the investigation is taking place, and I hacked his account when the scandal went public or else I wouldn't have suspected anything. You're good Irene, and I'm sure no one will suspect you just good lord don't… this is just not good.

-SH

senkulpeco007 zoho. tj

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

May 16, 2013

That was not me; I'm not that brazen. But he provided a wonderful cover for me own endeavors. I'm sure your brother will want your help, and in the interest of faith (just don't freak out when the balls start to drop in the financial world) the name of the not so genius behind the DB is Franco Marquez, originally from Argentina now a naturalized British citizen. You'll everything on him attached. Buena suerte.

-IA

senkulpeco007 zoho. tj

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

June 29, 2013

Hamish is eight months today, and he has a cold. We took a trip and I think he got sick on the plane those are wonderful infection carriers. Makes me miss my days flying private… he loved the beach. I'm not personally much of a sand girl, but he loved the stuff. He had great fun building a monstrous sandcastle (well I built it and he systematically smashed it with delight). I attached some photos of our little adventure.

-IA

senkulpeco007 zoho. tj

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

June 29, 2013

Air travel with an infant, I don't envy you with that. I used to destroy Mycroft's sand castles when we were children, he hated me for it. Well that and other things. And I'm going to assume that if your plans in the financial sector go right you'll be flying private again soon (nothing has happened in the regard here, so either you were very good at hiding or this is a longer term thing. Your tip was greatly appreciated by the British government. Franco has been arrested and all the funds transferred back to Germany. I don't want to now how you knew that, I just hope it didn't endanger your or Hamish).

Oh I meant to ask you, the textbook Hamish was fond of; what was it called?

-SH

FunnyHat hotmail. co. uk

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

July 3, 2013

It was an old psychology textbook I had lying around, nothing particularly interesting.

Say you're welcome to Mycroft for me, how did he react when you told him about Franco?

-IA

Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

To: FunnyHat hotmail. co. uk

July 5, 2013

Psychology? You took psychology? I suppose that fits with your extensive knowledge of what people 'like'. Well I recommend chemistry or biology first, much more useful. And they have more pictures, more attention grabbing.

-SH

senkulpeco007 zoho. tj

To: Sherlock Holmes therealSHolmes gmail. co. uk

April 29, 2012

Thank you for the advice, Mr. child rearing expert. But I went out and bought a copy of some beginning textbook on chemistry. He loves it. It has a model of some complex ionic compound in 3D he's rather fond of, and the DNA strand as well. I fear he's first word might be something ridiculous like "alkane" or "nanometer." Our son is going to be such an outsider… at this rate he'll be reading Euclid by age 3.

-IA

He'll be one soon right? I'd like to send him a gift (maybe a favorite textbook of mine). You can give me a false address and forward it on, bounce it all over the world. I just want to be a bigger part of his life Irene. Let me at least have that.

-SH

You really want to be more involved? But aren't we a liability for you? Ok, excuse the worries of a stressed mum. Yes of course you may send Hamish a gift! He's your son, and if you want to be a larger part of his life I'm not going to stand in you way. You can send it to C. B. at Bahnhofstrasse 36 P.O. 8010 Zurich Switzerland.

-IA

Switzerland… hmm. Package is sent, Happy early birthday Hamish. Irene, I would move you and Hamish here right now if I could, I would have a year ago, or when you first told me you were pregnant, or (in a perfect world) you would have returned to London with me. But you still have enemies here, my brother being one of them. So I will settle for brief email conversations, photos of Hamish (why are there never ones of you?), and obsessively following the financial sector for evidence you're still alive.

-SH

**_Hope you liked, the next chapter shall be much more exciting, and i think there will be 2 or 3 more. Oh, i just got a tumblr- follow me at this-casual-chaos_**

**_-KBRC_**


	3. Chapter 3

**_And i present, the much awaited chapter 3 (i have no excuse for the wait... sorry _****_lovelies). R&R. Dedicated to molly (who is amazing), Luke (sorry I annoy you so much) and Colorblind City (woke the muse). And to every single reviewer i love you, need you, appreciate you. ENJOY!_**

* * *

_Sherlock… I… I want nothing more than to return to London. Do you know how hard it is to stay away? I never thought you could feel that way about me… since you left really? Mr Sherlock Holmes, admitting he cares for someone. I'm flattered. I can't express how delighted I am that you want to be a larger part of our son's life. Even long distance…_

_He's up an about now, nearly walking on his own. I'm hoping he'll talk soon, I'm been drying to get him to say "mummy" but he's more interested in your wonderful gifts. Advanced chemistry and a rubics cube, how very you. He loves them. God, I can't pull him away… well he's your son for sure. (Not that there was ever any doubt) he had that cube figured out in less than a day. And he's only 13 months._

_-IA_

He's still nowhere near our records (remember that day in Seoul? god I think you even beat me). I'm glad he enjoys the gifts, I may send more (sadly chemistry sets are not suitable for toddlers). Promise me you'll send another video when he walks, I couldn't bear to miss that.

And how's life for you Irene? Work? You're games in the financial sector?

-SH

_Things are good for us Sherlock. Work is fine, a bit mundane but safe. I'm working as a part-time therapist (I have that degree dear). And as for my games you'll just have to wait and see. _

_I'm thinking he's going to talk soon, call me crazy but I can't just feel it. Yes I know that's bloody illogical and you can mock me all you like. _

_-IA_

Mother's intuition I believe. Intuition is recognized as a proper form of knowledge, it's own breed of knowledge. Therefore have no right to mock you. Try asking him questions. I took ages to start talking; apparently I was never interested in conversation. My mother finally got me to talk by refusing to grant my non-verbal requests until I demanded them in proper English (a practice John assures me I haven't stopped).

Oh just a thought, what kind of therapist are you?

-SH

PS: I figured it out. You're manipulating the trade markets between major European banks and their funds in China and the Middle East. Very clever. I wont' tell anyone, just don't get yourself… well you know.

_Oh drat, you've caught me Mr Holmes. And here I thought I was being so clever… although I do suppose I gave you a number of clues. _

_Your mother sounds like a terrifying woman. She forced you to talk by depriving you! I cant imagine doing something like that to our son. (Rather glad I'm not in London now, I might be forced to meet her…) I'm going to use your suggestion of asking him questions though, as he seems completely disinterested in talking at all. I fear he's more like you everyday- my very own mini-Sherlock._

_Oh, couples therapy btw. (the irony I know)_

_-IA_

I was under the impression being like me was a good thing in your eyes Irene ;)

-SH

_Oh it is love, don't worry. And in true Holmes fashion, Hamish not only said his first word yesterday, but expounded at length why he did not need to eat his peas and why broccoli is a much more satisfactory option. In perfect grammar. _

_As proud as I am of him, I'm worried for him! Honestly, he's going to be so different from all the other kids when he goes off to school… how am I supposed to do this? I feel like I'm not good enough, not giving him enough. I have to work, or else my cover will be blown, and on top of that my funds won't last forever. But even though I'm home all the time, it's as though I'm never enough._

_-IA_

Be proud of your son Irene, he's brilliant (as expected) and remember, he's only 16 months old. School is a long ways off, besides you have quite the affinity for social situations (and I get by). I'm sure he'll inherit. You're doing a phenomenal job Irene, especially on your own, I only wish I could help you more.

And Hamish is right; broccoli is much much better than peas.

-SH

_Thank you for handling my worried mummy rants Sherlock. You have so much faith in me, god I wish you where here. Which reminds me, why haven't we considered video chat? We should try next time John' away._

_-IA_

Is that really a good idea? I'd love to but… is it safe?

-SH

_Don't worry darling, secure networks are wonderfully dependable these days. _

_Hamish asked me about his father yesterday. I didn't know what to say. I told him your name (I just couldn't lie to him, couldn't bear the thought of him growing up not knowing you know?) and now all he wants is to meet you. He's only two years old, how do I tell him he'll never meet his father? How do I explain that?_

_-IA_

_Sherlock is everything ok? I'm sorry to keep dumping all of this on you, it's just I don't have anyone else_

_-IA_

No! No, it's fine. I had a string of cases and never a minute to myself. I see you pulled some strings; warn me next time you plan to send international business into a frenzy will you? I swear Mycroft nearly lost his head; he must be suspicious of something by now. Especially with how little help I've been. After this I should have more time, and John is going to visit his sister next week, we could try video calls then?

-SH

_Oh yes! I'm sure Hal will love it, and sorry about that, things progressed rather quickly, and I couldn't not take the opportunity. Just so you know, it worked. I'm worth millions once again._

_-IA_

"Come here Hamish," Irene says, lifting her son off the floor and setting him down on her lap, "Look her, we're gonna talk to daddy ok?"

She points at the screen, and the small boy mirrors her movements, tapping tiny fingers on the glass of her laptop. "Daddy isn't a laptop. You said daddy is Sher-lock Holmes." He turns to her with a confused expression, one painfully similar to his father's. Hamish can't quite get Sherlock's name right, it always comes out in heavily exaggerated two syllables. "How can we talk to daddy if we talk to the laptop?" his brow furrows, and he stares at the screen intently. A bittersweet smile blooms on Irene's lips._ Can you see how similar he is to you? He's so curious, so inquisitive, one explanation is never enough for either of you. Can you see? I hope you will._

"It's called video chat, love, there's a little camera here," her nails tap on the top of the case, just above the camera, the connection between them and Sherlock. "See?

And daddy-" her voice chokes a little, "has one as well. We can see and hear each other, even though he's far away."

Hamish nods, still intrigued by the new technology. "In London." He beams at his mother, proud to remember such an important fact.

"Yes, in London." Irene congratulates him, her smile wistful. She watches her son amuse himself with his rubics cube, and signs into Skype. Hamish looks up when the screen shifts, even at such a young age he's extremely perceptive. The video flickers to life, showing them a view of the Baker Street flat. It hasn't changed; it's exactly the same as when she was there all that time ago. The thought sends a little jolt through her heart. (_Your life hasn't changed, it's like we're not even in it. But we aren't are we? You don't need us. You have John and Molly and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and your cases and your brother. Do you need me?) _"Ok so here's us," she shows Hamish the small window in the lower corner of the screen where their image is displayed, and the boy waves, smiling at his own digital reflection. "And in a minute, your daddy should show up on the big screen here." Her voice is calm, not betraying any of her excitement or trepidation. It's been nearly 3 years since she's seen Sherlock face to face, and although they email regularly and she sends him pictures of Hamish and occasionally herself, they didn't part on the best of terms. It doesn't matter who walked away first, there was pain on all sides.

"Will he look like the picture?" Hamish asks excitedly, carefully grabbing the only picture of Sherlock in their flat off the desk. It's a bit worn; she carried it with her as she ran while pregnant, and from location to location until she settled here. All the same, it's pure Sherlock. Even with his hair short and died ginger, his trademark trench replaced by a beat up leather jacket picked up in Johannesburg, and his gaze away from the lens, he radiates the same control and brilliance. She recalls the scene, the setting sun creeping through the half open window of the seaside hotel room. The location is nameless, unimportant, but the emotion remains. The light paints shadows on his cheekbones, adding an even redder glow to his curly, slicked back hair. It was a picture that had to be taken, emerging a week later on a roll of surveillance shots. (_Do you now how much I loved you? How much it hurt to see you go?)_

"I don't know," she smiles, hiding her uncertainty again, "We'll see."

There's a commotion onscreen, and Sherlock stumbles into view, wearing the navy dressing gown (_So many memories dear, was that intentional?). _He sits down, adjusting the screen carefully before speaking. "Irene?"

"Hello Sherlock," she smiles. "Hamish," she bends down, vanishing for a bit, and he can hear her calling for the little boy, "Come back up here, daddy's here to talk to you." She pops back up, Hamish beaming in her arms.

"Daddy!" he squeals, squirming closer to the screen. His blue eyes are impossible bright, widened as he tries to memorize his fathers face.

"Hello Hamish," Sherlock says with a warm smile, his voice cracking uncharacteristically.

His son beams, and begins talking at a rapid fire pace so like his father's. Irene watches them from her place as Hamish's chair (even of the majority of his weight is balanced on his elbows which rest of the desk). He and Sherlock talk for a while, hours, and she's wrapped in a feeling of warmth. _(Why can't it be like this? Don't you see how perfect our life could be?) _

"Can I talk to your mum Hamish?" Sherlock asks after getting to know his son and telling him grand stories of London, of cases, of science. Hamish nods, turning around and tapping Irene on the nose.

"Daddy wants to talk to you mummy. Can I go get a yogurt?" He looks so cute sitting there on her lap, it makes Sherlock's smile grow. Irene nods and Hamish bounces off in the direction of what Sherlock presumes is the kitchen.

"You were a ginger last time a saw you," Irene says with a smile, but her voice is full of sadness.

He smiles back sadly, "It's been a while."

She nods, feeling the beginnings of tears prick at her eyes.

"How are you?" He asks, running a hand through his now shaggy locks, restored to their natural dark brown.

"I'm good. Seeing you and Hamish together was just precious."

"I bet," Sherlock laughs, "he's great Irene. Brilliant."

"Thank you," She smiles again, but tears begin to slip down her cheeks.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"I-" she starts then stops, standing up to grab a tissue from the other side of the desk. "Don't mind me, I'm just happy. We should have done this ages ago."

Sherlock nods, feeling similarly bittersweet.

"I just wish you could have been here, to see him grow up. He's so much like you…"

"I see that, you now how much I want to be there, it's just-"

"Not possible. I know."

Sherlock smiles, and Irene smiles back. There's noise on his end, the sound of someone coming up the stairs. "Sherlock?" and that's Mrs Hudson's voice.

"I've got to go," he says sadly.

"I know, wouldn't do for us to get caught. See you soon?"

"Yes, yes, bye Irene. Say goodbye to Hamish for me." He whispers frantically. And then he's gone. (_Do you feel empty when you leave me? When you left me?)_

They email after that, at regular intervals. About a month later they schedule another video chat, while John has a date (see? Sherlock does pay attention!).

He waits on Skype for a full hour before he starts to panic. After all, who knows what time it is where she is? Or where she is for that matter. But the night goes by and John comes back and she never shows up. He emails her the next day, and nothing. But that's nothing new; she often doesn't answer for a while.

A week goes by. Nothing.

A month. Still nothing.

7 weeks. Nothing.

And then, after 9 weeks, an email.

_Sherlock, I'm in trouble. Someone found me, someone from my past. I don't know who or how, but they don't now about Hamish. Can I send him to you in London? Please, I need to know he'll be safe._

_-IA_

WHAT!? Irene, you both need to be on a plane now. Come to London right away, I'll sort things out do you'll be safe here. Just please, don't do this alone.

-SH

_Sherlock, they only want me. If I send Hamish to you he'll be safe. Please._

_-IA_

You both. You don't want to leave him, and he needs you. I need you.

-SH

_Fine. Tomorrow, Heathrow- 3pm. _

_-IA_

* * *

**_I make no promises in regards to time of updates, but i have some time this week. the cast on my wrist make it slow but it's worth it. Review please?_****_  
_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: this was just supposed to be the start of a chapter, however, I got a little verbose and decided to cut it here. There are only a couple more chapters! Also, this one is focused more on sherlock- I felt like we didn't really get into his head much last chapter.**_

_**Enjoy! Xoxo**_

It's almost like a delayed reaction, what he's feeling now. Over two years delayed. He wonders if it's because up till now the existence of his son was a distant reality. Very real, but intangible. Something he had but could never hold. But now what was previously mist out of reach is a solid in his hands. His son will be here tomorrow. His son, whom he has never met, will become a part of his life here. The two realities, his life in London (his real life, his real identity) and his shadow life of Irene and their son (no less real, but very much dreamlike and unknown, disconnected), will come together. He knows it's an illogical comparison, but the thought feels not unlike pondering the meeting of two very different universes. He expects some sort of resulting catastrophe, a tidal wave, a rift in the earth, a splitting of the very fabric of space and time. Its not going to be like that he knows. If he does this right, the way he wants to, his… family will slip quietly into his life. The separate realities need to end; he needs there to only be one (has needed for quite a while, it was simply never a practical possibility before. separate kept them both safe. at least until now.) It's arranging all this, smoothing out the transition lines till there are no creases in the page, which will take time.

That task is what leaves him leaning against the desk (I'd have you on this desk until you begged for mercy twice… would you still? Where will we be?) With his head against his steepled fingers. It's a problem more complex than he'd anticipated, and he has few precious hours to solve it. Never le it be said Sherlock Holmes doesn't enjoy a challenge though. The first order of business is, obviously, to fully inform John of the situation. (The other keeper of your heart, she had said, one night in a nameless and blisteringly hot motel room, interrupting the light silence with heavy words. He knows now she was right, despite the two being very different he accepts that both are vital. In different capacities. How will that play out?)

There's a clock on the wall that reads 5pm, and john should be back soon. There is a correct way to do this, well maybe not. "The socially acceptable way to tell your flat mate/best friend that you have family he doesn't know about" doesn't seem like something he could Google. All the same he tries, finding a myriad of sources on breaking shocking news, but nothing exceptionally helpful. He's not sure this is a betrayal, he sincerely hopes not. He hopes John will understand the necessity for secrecy. But relationships are not his strength. That is evident in his uncertainty with Irene, another factor in the stress of tomorrow. What they had wasn't love… but it could have been. Under different circumstances, when they both weren't hiding in shadows and wrapped in darkness. There had been passion, and lust, and fun. With her deduction was flirting, espionage across the world was foreplay, banter was verbal intercourse. It had made the months away bearable. And yet, they'd ended much like most intense things. With all the spectacle of an explosion, all the heat of a raging fire, all the terror of an earthquake. And yet, from the outside you couldn't tell any of that. It reminded him of coming off cocaine, the internal pain. Only this time his drug felt it too.

And he needs things to be better this time, because he wants this to last.

The telltale creak of john's steps on the stairs sounds like a doorbell through the quiet flat. Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, standing up nervously. There's a mask of normalcy over his features, a good one. But not good enough to fool John.

"Sherlock, I'm back- I brought take away from the Chinese place," john calls out as he walks into the flat, "What's up?"

"I… " The stumbling over words is new, this uncertainty and trepidation clouding his head.

"Yeah? It can't be that bad Sherlock. I'm sure even if you set a building on fire it wouldn't really surprise me now, you came back from the dead after all." the slight bitterness doesn't escape Sherlock, and his mask slips further, guilt seeping into the cracks in his façade. "You didn't actually set a building on fire did you?" John says now, slightly panicked. Irrational.

"No." pause, easily interpreted as dramatic but not, "You remember Irene Adler?" The sites had said to go slow, ease into the topic. He's following the directions like he would the procedure for an elaborate experiment. This is not unlike an experiment, a study in Sherlock and relationships.

"Yeah…" John says slowly, confusion manifesting in the set of his brow, "hard to forget. She's in America right? Why bring her up?"

"Oh john, you don't have to lie. I know Mycroft told you the truth- well what he believed to be the truth." John looks shocked, unsurprisingly. "Let me guess, he said he was thorough, that no one could fool him? Well she's not actually dead. Very much a live actually. I gave her a new identity and sent her off, but she found me (or I found her I'm a little fuzzy on that) after I faked my death. Two dead people alive and wreaking havoc, great fun. Anyway that's not important. After I came back, returned to this life, she sent me an email saying she was pregnant with my child. They've been living somewhere safe for the past 2 years."

The ensuing silence is loud with John's questions and Sherlock's worry. Maybe he did this wrong… that was a lot of information rather fast.

"So, let me get this straight. You have a family, in another country with a woman the entire world believes is dead. " John says in disbelief.

"Yes."

"And not only did you save her, fake her death, hide her from your brother and the government, and me, but you spent a year with her and have a child with her? Without any of us knowing." definitely not going well, judging by the anger in john's words.

"His name is Hamish"

"Hamish. You named your son Hamish. Ok I can't even deal with hat right now. How did you keep anyone from finding out? I mean you have this whole other life an no one knew!"

"We email. That's it. I don't call her, although we did briefly video chat. I've never seen my son in person; I haven't seen a picture of him and Irene together more than a handful of times. I've never visited; I don't even know where they live. He's nearly two years old, and I don't know him John." Sherlock's voice cracks, too much emotion for the simple vocal chords to handle, "So in answer to your question, you don't know because Hamish and Irene exist is a very well guarded room in my mind palace, and until now I didn't now if id ever be able to let them be more than that"

"What changed?" john says in a low voice.

"There were threats made on her life. Who ever made them was unaware of Hamish's existence and Irene wished to keep it that way. She wanted to send him here and asked me to leave her alone so she could deal with it. I said no."

John nods, and it seems only right to continue.

"She wanted to sort this out on her own and I wanted to help. I won. She doesn't want to leave Hamish anymore than I want her to fight alone. So they're both coming here."

"Wait they're coming here? How is that going to work?"

"I suppose like it works with most people john. She'll fly here with Hamish and move in." Sherlock says assuredly, and then backtracks. "As long as you're ok with that…"

"Yeah. Of course." John says without missing a beat, "I guess, uh, congratulations." the awkward compliment is followed by an even more awkward clap on the back, an empty sentiment falling like a lead weight over the stiff muscle of Sherlock's shoulders.

"Thank you." Sherlock sighs- because it's the appropriate response. The relief is flooding his system, a piece of the puzzle clicked firmly into place. Now for the far more daunting task of informing Mycroft of the existence of his nephew, and persuading him to let Irene back into the country (and offer her protection as long as the threat exists). The first task should help the seconds though, if there's one thing Mycroft Holmes has it's copious amounts of familial loyalty. Plus, Sherlock knows everyone had lost hope of the Holmes line ever continuing. If nothing more, the existence of his child will at least please his mother.

That errant thought sends images spiraling to the front of his brain, Hamish and Irene meeting his mother (a thought both horrifying and yet desirable). Christmas mornings. Dropping his son off at school. Things he's never wanted and yet… The domesticity alarms him, never would he have thought he would picture that for himself (let alone with Irene. Did you feel like this when you found out? Were you scared?). But now its real and tangible and soon boarding a flight to London and he can't wait.

He busies himself with planning his discussion with Mycroft to distract from the pestering in his mind over his family's (he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of that. Family. His family.) arrival. This will have to be a carefully coordinated strike, each player on the board lined up just so. Mycroft could very easily send Sherlock's whole world tumbling down. He realizes the risks Irene is taking by coming here. Not that she hasn't taken risks before, but this is different. She's putting someone before herself, putting herself in front of the fire that is the British government (the nation that went to it's knees only to stand up and slap its mistress) to protect her son. But this time he won't be the one to burn her. This time he'll be here to shelter her, because she's so much more now. Has been, since their time as dead among the living.

He blows out of the flat in flurry of activity, a man on a mission. The cab ride to Mycroft's office takes significantly longer than usual, then again time measured in heartbeats in place of minutes seems longer. It feels as if the London traffic is out to get him (completely, utterly, irrational), his internal clock ticking down the hours he has left mercilessly.

Anthea lets him in, the dark wood and plush carpets of Mycroft's office greeting him with the same level if interest as their inhabitant. "What do you need Sherlock I'm busy?"

With John, he tried to be delicate, but with Mycroft this is a whole different game. The politician can dance rings around him in the delicate intricacies and idiosyncrasies of conversation (not unlike Irene). So he goes for shock factor, "Irene Adler is alive."

A pause, the setting down of a stack of files, the spinning of a chair. "What?"

"You heard me, Irene Adler is alive." The challenge in his tone is perfectly hewn, edges sharp and digging in.

His brother looks up at him, pausing again. It's almost comical to see Mycroft speechless, or it would be if the situation weren't so important. The pieces start to click; Sherlock can almost see the cogs turning. "Oh you idiot, " Mycroft sighs with an eye roll. "And why are you telling me. I would assume it's in both of your interests to keep this secret to yourselves."

"Oh there's more Mycroft. Irene has a son," He really should have brought a camera; his brother's face is priceless.

"You didn't." Mycroft breathes, rubbing his face with his hand when Sherlock nods.

"Yes. Now, I need your help. "Mycroft takes his face out of his hands, looking up with a blank expression. "There have been threats made on Irene's life recently, and to protect her and Hamish- that's my son," The emphasis makes Mycroft shift uncomfortably, but Sherlock knows it will help convince him, "safe I advised her to come to London. She lands tomorrow, and I can protect them here. Not that she needs much protecting but I'd like to help, and the backing of the British government- you- would certainly help."

Mycroft stands, pouring himself a glass of scotch. "I assure you, I will not persecute Ms. Adler. And I will provide security for you three. I assume that's what you need from me. One request Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Once this is all over, you're taking them to meet Mummy. She'll be delighted to know she has a grandson. Finally. Even if it did come by the likes of Irene Adler."

Sherlock smiles, nodding as he strides out the door. Sentiment. What a surprisingly useful thing.


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: This update is painfully late… in my defense I wasn't allowed to type anymore because of the wrist. But the cast is off and I can write again! So I present chapter 5, and chapter 6 should be up quicker than this was (provided I actually have internet…).**_

_**R&R guys! I'm delighted at the response to this! Mahalo (I'm updating from Hawaii lol). **_

It was quiet, so very quiet, this new life she has made for herself and her son. Most people would tell you that Iren Adler has never been one for quiet. But then again most people don't really know Irene at all. She's not even "Irene" anymore. For a while she lived as Sophia Walsh in a sleepy coastal California town, practicing therapy and smiling the carefree smiles of woman without a past. Since then her name has changed nearly every week. The still silence is now a luxury she cannot afford, it always means there's something brewing on the horizon, the calm before the storm. She has always feared the silence; she let herself be lulled into the calm for too long, welcoming the silence as safety. The silence now means that she has a second to breathe, a second to feel, to think, and to devote herself to Hamish.

She imagines Sherlock would find even her imagined safety in the silence boring and uneventful. He wouldn't be able to appreciate it like she does, wouldn't be able to reconcile that with the image of the Irene he knows. The one who traveled with him, who danced in the flames as Moriarty's web burnt, who held him together and pulled him apart, who kept pace as they raced through the absolute noise of the work. _(You wouldn't get it, you haven't been here. If you felt it, warm and benevolent and quiet serenity, you'd understand)._

But the reign of silence is over, and Irene is back to the rush and danger of her old life.

In all the days she has been running, the weeks, the years, nearly her whole life, she has always been running from something. From her family, from her past, from upset clients and clever governments. From killers. From herself. She has made a life in amongst the constant motion. Run. Run. Run. Don't stop, don't look back, and keep running. Always running _away_.

But now Irene has been given a destination, and a reason above all to finally run to something (to someone). London. The word echoes in every step she takes, the click of her keys on the keyboard of the laptop as she buys tickets, the muffled sounds of clothes hastily thrown into a duffel, the sharps raps of her heels on the cracked pavement of each nondescript city they pass through. London. It invades her heartbeat and pushes her onward, ever watchful. Sherlock, return, and maybe home.

The thought throws her for just a second, and she stops on the steps of the subway station to think for a minute (the first in weeks). Home isn't something that had ever had much meaning to her before, just an abstract idea. Other people had homes. Boring people, people who were content with the ebb and flow of everyday life. Irene wasn't one of them, isn't now despite everything. But she has Hamish now and home is no longer this abstract and unattainable concept, but something much closer to a desire. Their small house in seaside California, in a small town living about as far from her old life as she feasibly could, had never really felt like home. It was too much to keep living entirely as someone else. It never fit her. But London is still imprinted in her, will always be the city that makes her feel alive. (_Will it be home? We never talked about it, but now… I wish I knew what you wanted. I wish I knew what I wanted…. would you want that?)_

"Where are we going?" Hamish asks, probably for the millionth time since they left California. At first he was curious, excited by the prospect of a new place. But now the words fall with a weariness and exasperation far beyond his age. It's understandable. They've been traveling for weeks now, never the same place twice. She's fairly sure that he has more stamps on his various passports at 21 months than most adults (not to mention identities).

"To the airport," Irene replies as they weave their way through the New York public and into the subway.

"Planes!" Hamish exclaims, and Irene revels in the fact that no matter how many flights they take he still is enthralled by the metal flying contraptions.

"Yes, yes, planes," Irene smiles and slips onto the tram. She is wary of attracting too much attention, but it seems the only people who took notice of her son's excitement are an elderly couple on a bench nearby (grandparents, all warm smiles and kind eyes) and a young mum on the opposite side of the isle. Not that anyone would recognize her anyway. Her disguise is simple, her hair lightened to a soft chestnut brown and stick straight, her make up light, her clothing far more relaxed than her previous persona. The perfect mother on the go.

"What city mummy?" he has so many questions. It wouldn't surprise her if he's keeping some sort of map in his head of each place they've been, waiting for them to stop.

"London," she whispers in his ear, "shhh. We're going to see your daddy." The smile blooming across the boy's features is precious; she wants to bottle it up and keep it. Hold onto this while everything crumbles.

They board the plane as Vivienne and Henry Baker, settling into the first class seats. 7 hours. 7 hours to figure out how she's going to get out of this… problem. As much as she should be thinking on how she's going to stay alive, she has been for weeks and she's certain between she and Sherlock and quite possibly Mycroft (_how did he react? I would've paid to see his face) _they'll have it all planned out in minutes. What's more pressing to her at the moment is the very idea of returning. Not that she hasn't been hoping there was a way she could go back since she was forced to leave. But there are new dimensions now, variables she can't calculate (_you're a puzzle to me, even if I don't tell you, or show you. I know you can't figure me out either, but I could show you. I would show you.)._

Hamish stares out the window intently as the plane takes off. He'll be captivated by the clouds and receding skyline for a while. "New York," he says as they fly over the city.

"Yeah…" Irene replies quietly, knowing he isn't really speaking to her. The cites have never meant much to her, just the stops along a journey that only just got a destination.

"Your son is just darling," the woman next to her smiles, and Irene nearly jumps out of her seat. All her practice and she's loosing her edge. (_See what you do to me?)_. Early 60s, British but not from London- the accent isn't quite right- married a least 30 years to the man on her right. Probably not trying to kill them but who knows…

"Sorry what? I was a bit zoned out there." Irene says calmly, turning to face the woman.

Said woman smiles the most cliché grandmotherly smile Irene has ever seen, but it appears genuine, "I said your son is darling, how old is he?"

"Oh," Irene smiles brightly, an for once it's not forced," thank you, 21 months."

"He's bright for his age."

"Very," Irene says almost sadly, the emotion not missed by the older woman.

"So, heading home?" The woman asks, and it should fire warning signals in Irene's brain, but it doesn't. She's always been good at reading people, and this woman seems nice enough, just one of those overly talkative people.

"Uh," Irene looks down a bit, trying to decide what to say.

In the end, she tells the woman- Helen- more than she's told anyone in years. Its cathartic, in a way, telling someone nearly everything (names and a few crucial details omitted). And she receives not the abject shock and disdain she half expected, but a fascination and almost inherent support. And it takes her mind off all the uncertainty with Sherlock.

She finds out Helen's husband Tom was a civil servant, but has been retired for a while. Their daughter lives in New York, and they're coming back from a visit. She likes them instinctively, and for the first time since her parting with Sherlock she is almost herself.

4 hours in her bubble breaks. The man 6 seats back has been watching her, too carefully for a stranger. Worry flares, and she pulls Hamish a little closer, slipping wholehearted into her role (which isn't much of a role at this point, but a disguise _is_ always a self portrait). Something must read in her features though, and she wonders not for the first time if she's slipping or if Helen sees people much like Irene herself does.

"What's wrong?" Helen asks midway through a description of she and Tom's trip to Africa. At Irene's blank look she elaborates, "You look startled, what is it?"

Irene has said enough already she figures she might as well just tell the truth now, "The man 6 seats behind you- don't turn around- has been watching me. I… we're in some trouble actually. Nothing illegal, I've just made enemies in my past. There's a fairly good chance he's going to try to kill me."

Helen looks stricken, but Tom's eyes are bright. "Well, that's certainly more interesting than anything I've got to tell," he says, speaking for maybe the third since take off. "What do you need?"

Irene pauses for a second, and then smiles. As much danger as she's in, Tom's smile reminds her of the fun she used to have with all this. Playing her life like it was a game of Russian roulette. "Are you offering to help me?" She asks with an almost impish smile, "You barely know me."

"Never stopped me before," he grins.

"Well then, I suppose I could use a cover. He's of course been sent my photo, but I look a bit different now. Based on his body language he's not sure if I am who he's looking for yet…"

"Well we better assure him you're not then."

"Of course," Irene smiles like liquid venom, wrapping herself in the spirit of the game. "And I take it you have a plan?"

"Well, if he expects you alone, we could away deepen that disguise of yours. Travelling with the grandparents?"

It's a close call, but by the time they disembark the plane at Heathrow, she's safe again. The man walks by them at the gate, but with Irene laughing with Tom and Hamish smiling brightly up from Helens arms, she's so very un-Irene-Adler that he doesn't give her a second glance.

It's distracting, this business of staying alive. Once they are safe again, at least for the moment, the trepidation surges back. Irene feels very out of her depth, there's too much at stake here. (_I told myself I wouldn't break when I saw you again, and I won't. maybe). _The thing about Irene Adler though, is that even when she's in over her head, she never drowns. So she reminds herself to breathe, says goodbye to Tom and Helen, and scoops Hamish up. "Come on dear, let's see your dad."

_**Next up- reunion… **_


	6. Chapter 6

_**I had a lot of driving these last few days, so I did some writing. I give you the reunion:) I tried to keep I not OOC, but tell me if it is! thanks for the new follows, favourites, and reviews guys. (also longest chapter yet!)**_

The buzz of Heathrow hits her as she walks towards baggage claim. It shouldn't feel so dramatic, the tangible shift in the air, filling her lungs better than anywhere else. Psychosomatic. She's nearly giddy by the time they're through customs. She's back. Irene Adler reborn, and goddammit it feels good. Hamish detects her happiness, and he squirms in her arms to get down. Irene lets him run around (as best he can given that he still wobbles when he walks) as they wait for their bags, propping herself up against a wall. "Mummy! Mummy when are going to see daddy?" He asks excitedly, bumping into Irene and tugging on her jacket.

An excitedly nervous thrill runs up her spine, but she smiles all the same. "Soon. We have to get our bag first, and then through customs."

"Ok!" He bounds off again, pulling her closer to wait with him by the edge of the conveyor for their luggage. Irene scoops him up and settles him on her hip, reaching forward to pull their duffel from the belt. Before she can lift it up though, a hand beats hers to the strap and heaves the bag off for her.

"Here you are." A man says and hands her the bag. Irene stares at him with wide eyes, recognition flaring. It's the man from the plane.

"Thanks." She replies, her voice still even despite the icy claws of fear coiling through her veins. Granted, she is Irene Adler, even now, and danger never scared her enough.

"Not a problem. Seems you got your hands full there." Irene tenses again, feeling extremely protective and wary as the man (assassin, killer, threat) smiles dangerously at Hamish. Her son buries his head in her shoulder, equally uncomfortable with the attention. Irene fixes the "Vivienne Baker" mask firmly on her face as her mind goes into overdrive.

She's devising a way out of this, trying to picture a scenario that doesn't end in bloodshed, when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry about that, had to make a call," Toms voice sends relief waves through her. Irene schools her features, betraying neither the worry nor the release of tension. They'll be fine, the rouse is still up, and effective judging by the confused look on her would be killers face. "Here I'll take this," Tom continues, picking up her bag.

"Thanks." Irene sighs, giving a last tight smile to the still confused assailant and walking away with Tom. She can feel her heart racing and she sighs again, setting Hamish down on a bench next to Helen. "Thank you, really."

"We couldn't leave you there could we?" Helen laughs.

"You could've, most people would." Irene murmurs. After all, Sherlock did, as did she. Abandoning each other when it got too much, when the risk was too high. And he had before, leaving her to the mercy of his brother (and what a mercy _that_ had been) and to slowly lose hope as she wasted away in a prison. The nervousness returns, but she stamps it down viciously. She can't afford to think like that.

"Well, let's get on then." Helen says and stands from the bench, taking Hamish by the hand.

They progress through customs together, keeping with the rouse. At the opaque doors leading out Irene stills, scooping Hamish up and takes a deep breathe. "Here we go," she whispers into his ear.

"Come along dear," Helen smiles and takes her hand, "you'll be fine. " Irene feels like a child, more unsure than she has in years. She's not particularly sure why, either. She's faced far more threatening situations, even greeted the man she's meeting now naked. This, however, matters far more. Irene is for once invested in something not only for the money, or for the thrill, but emotionally invested. She rather hates the nervousness, and the dependency she is showing. The reassurance is nice though, and she smiles and walks through the door. Before they meet the waiting drivers, friends and family, Helen pulls her aside and gives her a quick hug. "Good luck." She smiles. Tom pats her shoulder and ruffles Hamish's hair, giving her a smile and a small sheet of paper with a number and an email. "If you need anything… Or just keep in touch." For the first time in a very long time Irene feels supported, not alone.

"Thank you." She returns the hug and shakes Tom's hand, stepping away towards the queue as Tom and Helen head to the doors. She searches the crowd, her eyes passing over limo drivers and private chauffeurs (not unlike the ones she used to have. And for a brief moment her mind flashes to Kate, and she wonders where her prior assistant/lover is now.). She finds Sherlock quickly, standing toward the doors with his hands in his trouser pockets. She smiles as his eyes find hers. "Sherlock."

"Irene," he says quietly, his eyes leaving hers to fix on the small boy in her arms, "and Hamish." He curses the way his voice cracks just a little, betraying the nerves boiling in his stomach. "You look different, tanner," Sherlock watches as her eyebrow raises, a playful smirk on her lips, "I didn't mean... You look good."

Irene laughs. The nervous sort of laughter that breaks silences and eases tension. "You look the same." She meant to make that sound jovial, but instead melancholy creeps in to her tone and his face falls slightly.

Sherlock studies her briefly, taking in her fitted jeans, almost demure blouse, and her trademark Louboutins (he wonders briefly if she ever stopped wearing those, she certainly hadn't in the months she aided him. They seem impractical and uncomfortable especially when pregnant), the slight widening of her hips, her lightened hair stick straight down her back _(I miss your hair Irene, the way I ran my fingers through it and they would tangle in the ends and how it fell over your eyes when you looked down, the way it looked spread out and mussed up in the morning, how it almost matched mine_). His eyes catalogue the changes in her before he lets them move to the boy in her arms. His son. He is small, with a head of curly dark hair exactly like Sherlock's own. Bright blue eyes catch Sherlock's gaze and the boy smiles. "Hello Hamish."

"Hello." Hamish says quietly, subdued from his previous excitement, and buries his head in his mums shoulder.

"He's tired," Irene says quietly, "long flight."

"Right. We should get to the car then. I borrowed one of Mycroft's; it's just out front. Parking isn't allowed there, but government plates are a wonderful thing." Sherlock starts waking and then stops, turning to Irene and taking the duffel from her shoulder. He pauses for a second, and then takes her hand. "Did you have any trouble on the flight?"

"Oh you know me, there's trouble wherever I go," Irene smirks. Her fingers are warm in his, despite the cold and aloof tone of her voice. "There was a tail on the plane, but I avoided him with some help."

"Help?"

"A wonderful elderly couple I met on the flight." She raises her eyebrows and broadens her smirk. It's a challenging look, compelling him. The tactic is one she often used during lulls in their work to entertain him, keep his mind as well as his body busy.

"Your idea or theirs? I find it hard to imagine your first thought would be to play happy families."

"There's a lot about me that's changed Sherlock," Irene says lowly and Sherlock mentally kicks himself for his words. "It was theirs though, he was retired MI5 and absolutely delighted to help." Her tone holds none of its previous warning, but she takes her hand out of his. He places the now vacant hand in his pocket and stares out the lot, away from her caustic and almost hurt looking eyes.

The ride to the flat is silent, but not uncomfortably so. It's not for lack of words they don't speak; Sherlock has more than enough questions, but because Hamish has fallen asleep in Irene's lap. Sherlock keeps flicking his eyes to the boy, and Irene gives him reassuring tight-lipped smiles. When they reach the flat Irene carries Hamish up carefully while Sherlock takes her bags. "You can put him in my room," he says quietly.

"I'll just be a minute," Irene whispers as she heads to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock sets Irene's bags by his chair and waits. Mentally, he feels a bit lost, drowning in the realization that a) Irene is back in his life and b) this whole part of his life is now tangible and real. No matter how many times he realizes that it doesn't quite seem to sink in. Disbelief isn't something he's used to, he's always quick to judge and deduce and understand. But Irene has always been a grey area. And the existence of Hamish still feels very much like a dream. His thoughts fall on her fleeting anger with him before they left Heathrow. Irene had a right to be angry; he'd spoken without thinking and said stupidly offensive things. (_That isn't new is it_?). Of course Irene would want to "play happy families" as he had so artfully put it. Hamish was proof of that.

He withdraws from his thoughts and notices Irene has yet to return. Standing up from the chair he quietly enters his room. The sight that greets him is both old and new; Irene curled beneath the covers of his bed. It invokes a strange feeling in him, seeing her there in his space with their son sleeping against her.

Her eyes open when he walks in, and she smiles. "He takes a while to fall asleep in new places," she explains softly.

Sherlock doesn't really know what to say- he has absolutely nothing to go on. He's so far out of his depth now, swimming in a sea he doesn't understand. Irene reads it in his face, and carefully moves Hamish off her. She moves off the bed and Sherlock follows her out to the living area, waiting as she rummages around in her bag. "Here," she hands him a thick photo album, "I tried to capture everything. I thought I'd mail it to you when it was full, but then this all happened and... It was the best I could do. There are a few blank pages at the end. I haven't had time these last few weeks to update it-"

"It's perfect, Irene, thank you," Sherlock cuts her off. He flips carefully through the pages of the album, Hamish's face smiling back at him from nearly every one. As he goes on Hamish grows up in stills. First steps, first words, first trip, a marathon of firsts spread across the paper. It's too much. He sinks into his chair and closes the book, resting his head in his hands.

Irene comes over to him and sits in his lap, her hands taking his. "It's a lot, I know, I wish it hadn't been like this. I wish..." She trails off and looks at him searchingly.

"I just feel like I missed everything. He's beautiful and happy and intelligent and I didn't have anything to do with that. I see him on these pages and I don't know him, I don't know the stories behind these photographs. And I want to, I need to. I saw you two asleep in my room and it just felt right somehow- and I am aware that is vague and sentimental. It all feels very distant and unreal still." The level of his voice has risen well above a whisper by the time he's done, the intensity of his voice matching the thrumming of his heart.

She can feel his pulse beneath her hands, and releases his hands in favor of cupping his face. "You haven't missed everything. He's not even two yet Sherlock, there's so much more to come. We're here now, were real now. Look at me," she presses on; holding him to her, "you had everything to do with this. It does take both a man and a woman to make a child after all," she says almost jokingly, but it doesn't seem to cheer him up. So she goes on, more serious now. "Why do you think I kept him Sherlock? When I had every option available why add in another liability?"

Sherlock hadn't considered it that way, at least not since that first email. It's not something he tried to understand. But the question brings a cacophony of thoughts and images to his mind. She wouldn't have been morally opposed to the alternatives, and she said she had options. Therefore, the reasoning was sentimental in nature. "You, you obviously must have considered either adoption or abortion, given the difficulty of life on the run. Even after all your help with Moriarty and the collapse of that criminal network there were-and still are obviously- people who wish you harm. I'm sorry that I couldn't do anything to help you... Given that, having a child increased the risk exponentially. Meaning, you saw more benefits than costs in keeping him. And those benefits had to have been sentimental. And fairly recent given that you had never expressed any desire for children or maternal instinct before."

"Yes," Irene, who had been sitting patiently as he thought through all of this out loud, "despite everything, I was still attached to you, I couldn't give up what I had left of you. I didn't know if I'd ever see you again, and so I didn't get an abortion. I drove to a clinic but couldn't get out of the car. At first, that was it. But after those first few weeks I rather liked the idea of becoming a mother." She smiles then, bright eyes fixed on his, "see? You are the reason I didn't make a huge mistake. And I'm so grateful for that. My life has changed completely and I love it. I never thought I could be a mother, a proper mother. But I... Hamish is my life now."

Sherlock nods and swallows. It had been obvious she felt something for him, since even before he deduced her sentiment and sent her into Mycroft's hands. Her feelings had only grown since Karachi, as had his. Now, there is a calm sort of intensity to the air between them, not the desperate feeling of Karachi nor the brilliant fire in their time after his fall. His pulse hasn't decreased, but he's no longer upset. "I felt the same way," he mutters, the admission necessary and yet never something he would've voiced out loud. He knows she's the same, that before now they never would have been able to tell each other how they felt. But now, after year's apart and personal pain, and Hamish above all, she's far more open. And he reciprocates.

"And now?" She breathes, and he hadn't realized how small the distance between them is, her breath puffing across his lips.

"Now... Now I don't know. That depends on you." Irene doesn't answer, but closes that small distance and presses their lips together. It's enough for her to hear that, that they are the same, that he felt the same, that they are equally unsure.

_**This is nearly a double update… can I get a healthy supply of reviews? Even if you hate it, or there's anything you want to see/hear… more Hamish? More John? More Mycroft? (There is some of him in the next chapter) **_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Wow, so I took way too long with this an I am so sorry. There will be more (I have the next three written now)_

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John had been in a café across town for the better part of the afternoon and into the late evening. He'd told himself to return to the flat 45 minutes after Sherlock texted him to say he was back. 45 minutes had come and gone, then 2 hours, then 3. Nearing the fourth hour and far past losing track of the number of drinks he'd ordered, he figured he should head back.

Somehow the short walk to the flat takes him another hour and through a bar, where he refrains from getting drunk just barely. It shouldn't bother him this much. Sure, Sherlock lied. But Sherlock often lies, decides tings aren't necessary for John to know, and tries to keep him safe that way. He's a hurricane, oblivious to the damage he wrecks unannounced or not. Keeping his family from his flat mate didn't protect John. Far from it.

He knocks back a final drink and pays his tab, stepping out of the pub into the frigid night air. Fine, Irene was technically dead and still a fugitive (maybe? He wasn't entirely sure how many governments that woman had managed to wrong). Fine, Sherlock was doing what he thought was best for his family. But how could telling him have been a danger? He could understand keeping Irene's survival- Sherlock's daring rescue- a secret at first, with Mycroft still sniffing around. And after his own resurrection, yeah there may be suspicion again. Three years was a long time to keep a secret this big past due though, a long time to lie by omission to someone you claimed was your best friend. (_You don't trust me even now do you? I'm still not good enough for that. But you have her to tell all your secrets to I guess.)_

His heart is racing a little as he opens the door the 221, and he stills on the fifth stair. It's a kid, and he's freaking out. Well no, it's not just a kid. It's the secret love child of his genius-socially-inept-self-described-sociopath flat mate and his "deceased" ("_rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated" yeah fuck you both) _dominatrix lover- "Screw it, just open the damn door," He scolds himself and jogs up the last few steps.

What he sees isn't what he'd been expecting; the scene in the living room is far too sweet to match up with Sherlock and Irene. But all the same, Irene is draped sleepily over Sherlock as they talk quietly. Feeling very much the outsider in his own home, John stops in the door.

They don't notice him at first, or at least pretend not to, but then Irene slides off of Sherlock's lap and stands up to greet him. The warm smile on her face does nothing to ease the coil of uncertainty in his stomach. It is just wrong on her; at least it feels so to him. "Irene," he forces himself to smile and nod good-naturedly, "Not dead I see."

She laughs, a light and airy sound that isn't necessarily happy, but isn't sharp or sarcastic as he would expect, "No, most certainly alive. But Sherlock told you that."

"Yeah, he did," John looks at Sherlock, who hasn't gotten up to join in the little reunion. "It's, uh, good to see you back." His wariness isn't missed by either Sherlock or Irene, the later who attempts a reassuring smile.

"And you as well Doctor Watson," How is this the same woman he met before? Actually, she reminds him more of the time she stayed in their flat, minus the scheming this go around. At least he hopes so.

"John, please."

Irene smiles, and then yawns, and he remembers how she was almost asleep when he arrived. Being on the run must be hell for your health. Which reminds him… "Your son, yeah, Hamish? Where is he?"

"He's asleep," Irene nods her head to her left, indicating Sherlock's bedroom. Oddly enough, he finds himself disappointed. As anxious as the thought of Sherlock's son had made him, part of that anxiety had been due to an overwhelming sense of excitement. John had always loved children, but had yet to have the opportunity to bring them into is life. And Sherlock… well it was certainly a shock to hear he had a child (And with the _late_ Irene Adler no less), but he had already seen, in the barely 24 hours since finding out they were coming, how much of a change the young boy had wrought on the detective. He was visibly more human. Seeing the reaction without the catalyst was rather anticlimactic.

Irene is speaking, and it takes John a moment to realize that it is directed at him. "Sorry, it's been a long day," he hears himself apologize.

Her ensuing smile is oddly serene. The calm still surface of a lake so mysterious that something deadly must be lurking in its depths. God he hopes not. Irene has caused more than enough trouble for one woman, even The Woman.

"I could say the same, long couple of weeks really." Her honey warm voice flows lazily and he notes how it is still sensual and captivating, but markedly different from the bedroom voice she spoke with the last time he saw her. "I'll see you in the morning John." Then suddenly she is gone, retreating into Sherlock's room before he can wish her a proper goodnight, a faint touch on Sherlock's shoulder and a last nod to John as she leaves.

The taller man's eyes trail her as she exits, and Sherlock blushes the faintest tinge of red when he catches John smirking at him.

"So she's back then." John speaks after an oddly tense moment, restoring the equilibrium built on years of long standing report between them.

"Yes she certainly is…"

"And she brought…?"

"Hamish yes, that was the entire point." Sherlock cuts him off with his customary monotone interruption, and John can here the scolding of "do pay attention" or "use your brain" at the end of his statement, even if he doesn't say it. "They're both well, if obviously travel worn. Being on the run alone is taxing enough, I can't begin to imagine how difficult it must have been with a small child."

His voice is oddly morose, it is a harsh reminder that this little reunion, however happy it may be, was brought about by les than ideal conditions. There was the highest level of security on the flat now, Mycroft's men stationed outside, and an unknown killer out to get Irene, and by extension Sherlock's son (although, Irene probably knew. She would tell them all when the timing was right, which evidently wasn't tonight).

"So are you two together?" John cuts in on his thoughts, and he raised his eyebrows in confusion and at being pulled back to reality. "You and Irene. As a couple."

Oh. Oh. Together as in _that _together. He didn't answer for a moment, because he honestly didn't know. (I'd like to be, it feels like we are, it feels like we are…) She had kissed him, but he wasn't sure what that meant, or what she wanted besides protection. "Irene and I have remained close despite the circumstances and are closer now, but at present I am unsure as to the precise way to define out relationship, if there is one." His explanation made John scoff, and Sherlock glared at him.

"Oh come off it Sherlock, you were practically giddy all day that she was coming back. You still care about her, maybe even love her. I won't be surprised if by the time all of this is over the answer to that question will be an unapologetic yes."

(It already is) Sherlock stares blankly at John as if he'd just spoken Mandarin and the army doctor just waves him off. "See you in the morning."

And what a morning it will be.


	8. Chapter 8

_Here's more, because I've made you all wait ... 4 months? _

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Irene wakes up to tiny hands in her hair and the press of a larger warm body against her back. The first is incredibly familiar, but the second gives her pause. Weeks of hiding out have made her accustomed to waking early and alone (besides Hamish of course) and the addition set her on edge. Panicking for a moment, muscles tensing involuntarily as her heart rate spikes. Then her mind kicks in, and she recalls where she is. Sherlock's flat. Safe (_if there is such a thing anymore? Will we ever be safe? If only you'd agreed to do this my way, at least I'd know Hamish would be safe.)_

"No Hamish, let your mummy sleep. She was very tired last night." Sherlock's deep baritone murmurs, so close to her that she can feel the reverberations. Eyes still firmly shut, she feels him reach across her to presumably remove Hamish's hands from her hair. Which was incredibly thoughtful, if a futile task. It didn't even strike her as unusual until a moment later, mind foggy from sleep. Hamish and Sherlock have only once met via video chat and in person briefly, for but a minute yesterday, and already he was taking on the role of a father (of course he'd already done a marvelous job, long distance anyway). It was incredibly sweet and she felt warmth spread through her at the thought of her little family together at last.

"But I want Mummy to wake up!" The tugs on her slightly waving hair become more insistent and Irene presses deeper into the pillow in response.

"M' up," She groaned, but didn't move. The boy pulls on her hair again, with a petulant whine, and she rolls over. "'Morning Hamish."

"Mummy!" He claps, climbing from his spot near Sherlock to sit on her stomach, "you're up, you're up, you're up."

"I certainly am now…" She sighs, but smiles brightly at him, "Have you been bugging daddy?" It's almost funny how easily that rolls off her tongue, completely natural and unprompted. But Hamish knows who his father is, always has, and seen photos as well as chatted on the video chat. It isn't as if Sherlock has not been a part of their lives. Albeit a distant, removed, and often lost part. As well as rather one sided at times.

It's a bittersweet feeling. Wonderful to be here, comfortable and safe in the lazy mid morning light with her son giddy between her and Sherlock. But at the same time, the newness hurts, and she could lose all of this.

If Sherlock picks up on her train of thoughts, he doesn't let on. In fact the boy in the bed, still with his tiny hands in Irene's hair, transfixes him. "He wasn't bugging me," Sherlock looks at her now, all soft eyes and light whisper of a smile. She wonders if her knows how long she has wanted this, how she pictured the three of them together every time she read one of his emails. "I was happy to occupy him, we've been up for a while."

That makes her smile, the lit up from the inside kind that makes her look so much younger. (_Haven't smiled like that- haven't felt like this- in a while. Must be you darling_)? She sits up, Hamish settling in her lap as she faces Sherlock. Her finger finds his sharp cheekbone, stroking over it lightly. She has missed him, even though it feels as if they were never really lost, the ache is still there, along with the pleasant bubbling of happiness through her. It's obvious her touch is unexpected, but not unwanted. Sherlock leans in ever so slightly, unconsciously. He doesn't know how to respond, not really, but his smile mirrors her own in it's softness. The little boy between them giggles, grinning up and tugging on Irene's hair again.

"Let's get you dressed," Irene finally pulls away, sliding off the bed and opening the large duffle at its foot. The selection is meager, what she could grab before they left that hasn't worn out yet, a few purchases such as the striped polo she pulls out and the shorts. Being on the run has taken its toll on them. "Good?" She asks Hamish, not because he actually cares but because she likes to give him a semblance of choice. They have so few now.

"Yeah." The boy replies, and the seriousness in his voice makes both she and Sherlock laugh, the later tickling the boy lightly. He isn't as experienced with children as he would be if… if he'd been with his family for the last two years. (_I should have been, if things had been different. There's so many what ifs with us aren't there?)_. At least, his son seems easy enough. He's spent the last two hours with a very awake Hamish, and managed to distract him from waking his mother all that time. Although it helped that she was definitely exhausted. He'd shown him the same chemistry book he'd sent as a present, his copy far more worn than the one he spies tucked into her duffle. Explaining his latest experiment to a two year old hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped, even if Hamish seemed to like the microscope well enough. They'd work on that.

But now Irene has taken over for him, and he watches happily as she dresses the little boy, blowing kisses and raspberries to his slightly pudgy stomach and tickling him. Which is counter productive for getting dressed but impossibly adorable.

He can't help but note the similarities between Hamish and himself and Irene. The dark wavy hair could be either really (never has it been more apparent how similar he and Irene are aesthetically, and again he misses her natural hair), as could the angles of his face, although the jaw is unmistakably hers. Eyes- blue as expected but too greenish to come from Irene, and Sherlock's cupid bow lips certainly.

It is also hard for Sherlock to top comparing the laughing woman before him to the one he left behind. It is one thing to experience change over email. To witness her transformation from dominatrix to mother letter by letter in crisp, clean black and white. But in person the emotion is messy and something he hadn't expected to feel. She's still Irene, of course. Some things about her will never change- like the way she moves seductively naturally, or how her intelligence matches his own to where she can read him and what he needs at a glance. But other things are different. She is softer, warmer, and more open than he has ever seen her (at least now, with Mycroft things would likely be different.) Physically not much is different, the changes not as obvious, although her measurements are slightly altered and her hair obviously.

There is a nock on the door just as he picks Hamish up. "Sherlock," John's voice, slightly stressed, definitely apprehensive, "Mycroft wants o speak to you and Irene."

And just like that their pleasant morning is over and it is almost instant, the transition in Irene from carefree to walled off. A natural defense mechanism, startling in its effectiveness. Suddenly she reminds him much more of The Woman than he was prepared for.

"I need to change," she murmurs quietly, all playfulness ceased. "I'll be out in a moment."

He nods, what else is he supposed to do? The phrase 'between a rock and a hard place' has never been so applicable. The question is whether Irene is the rock or Mycroft is. Both are dangerous and detrimental. Opening the door quickly he leaves Irene and his son in the room and heads toward Mycroft. His brother looks utterly thrilled to be there, with all he excitement of a patient receiving a terminal diagnosis.

"Enjoying your reunion with Miss Adler I see," the politician almost sneers, disdain palatable and flowing just under the surface.

"Yes quite. I wasn't expecting you so early."

"Ah. Well, when doing favours for an enemy of the state I like to be prompt."

Sherlock is about to contest that claim when the woman in question enters, Hamish affixed to her hip. Unpredictably and breaking her own habits, she has declined to apply any makeup, and the shirtdress she wears is far simpler than the couture wardrobe of years previous. It is certainly deliberate, as her masks are just as strong if not stronger even without her armor. Strangely the thought of refugees flits across his mind. (_Although you would never label yourself as such, even if you truly are in a way. It'd be too damaging on your pride, to admit the need for help in such a way.)_

Although he knew of the existence of the child, there is no missing the way Mycroft's eyes widen at the sight of Hamish, nor the slight tension in the set of his jaw, betrayed in the fine lines at the corner of his mouth. "Miss Adler, and … Hamish I presume." The slight pause is indicative of his discomfort, and in response Sherlock almost smirks.

Hamish, blissfully unaware of the silent battle between his mother and the man in the fancy blue suit, smiles and waves from his spot on Irene's hip when he hears his name.

'Mr Holmes," Her voice is level, and less bruising than Sherlock would have expected it to be had Hamish not been present. There is still a predatory lilt to her tone, and the Sherlock notes the defensive set of her shoulders. "Thank you," but it is not thanks given out of gratitude, as grateful as she is. It is pulled from within by obligation. By the debts she adds to her list.

"I am not doing this for you, know that." She does not flinch at the obvious and unmasked contempt in his voice. "I owe my brother several… favours. Evidently he sees fit to protect you."

Mycroft won't look at Hamish now, as if the knowledge that the child is the real reason behind this entire meeting. As if Irene would still be here if she had not been looking out for the welfare of her son first, in desperation. It is obvious asking for help is difficult for her. Even though it was the only option. Sherlock looks at Irene, then back to Mycroft as he speaks his warning, and then instinctively moves closer to Irene. He nods, she nods, and they sit on the worn couch.

"All the same," she settles Hamish in between them as she speaks, the purr of her voice sinister under the surface (_intended to antagonize, clever. Reminding my brother of your power when he wants you on your knees. You won't kneel, not to anyone. You're stronger than that. Remember that.)_

"Yes well," They must cast quite the portrait, all seated on the couch like a proper family. It is clearly making his brother uncomfortable. Beaurocracy voice in use now, his hands tensed in his lap even as he lounges in Sherlock's chair. Cleverly arranged contradictions, much like Irene employs. It is often a disarming tactic, that cacophony of externally expressed emotion. Less effective when playing against a master whilst using basic maneuvers. Watch out, Mycroft. "My brother declined to spare many details in his plea for your safety. So, Miss Adler, why are you here?"

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_Next update might be in a bit... I only have wifi for the next two days. But it'll be soon, it's already written!_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Me attempting the barest of plot… yeisch. Not sure about this chapter buy c'est la vie. Also, mentions of domestic violence and abuse in the first part (TRIGGER WARNING- but not at all graphic).**_

When she was eighteen, Natalie Smith ran away from her stepfather's house in Kent and ended up in London. She worked her way through school, determined to break an unforgiving cycle of poverty and violence in her family. But three jobs didn't bring in enough money to keep her alive and in school, and juggling the workload and courses was near impossible.

Her grades slipped. She was one missed assignment away from losing the meager scholarship she had, as well as sleep deprived, underfed, and desperate.

And then she met Alicia, and Alicia's "friends." A pretty girl like her could make more in one night than she did in a week now, they said. It's nothing like you think, they said. This is high class, prostitution, they said. Well, she'd never had any qualms about her body. She was a pretty girl, had been told that from a young age. She knew what that meant, knew how men looked at her, always had. Chose to look at the attention as empowering. Now, she could capitalize on that.

Every night, she makes a grand or more. It isn't fun, it's demeaning at first, but it isn't as dirty as she expected. It feels like a proper business. There are people in charge that fetch their clients, transactions are anonymous and separate, and they receive their compensation via wire transfer to their account. Organized, smooth, easy.

She quits her other jobs.

Her grades climb, she gets healthy again, she finishes the year, and then pays back some of her loans, even studied through he summer to get ahead.

But it's a slippery slope, filled with the worst of hidden traps. She fell slowly, in a haze of simple safety. Until she met him.

He, who bought her the prettiest of things and took her to the kinds of places she had only dreamed of. Who showed her the wealth and the power she craved, bathed in the adoration she wanted, and shared it all with her. Glittering gems and the crystalline bliss of designer drugs and false wealth.

The drugs made it easy to forget. To ignore the dark side of that fools paradise. To turn a blind eye to the bruises marring her skin, how he would force himself on her, how he _owned_ her. Her reality now, married to a man who abused her, who controlled her.

Her graduation coincided with his arrest, far more charges than she could wrap her head around. She'd known of course, the sort of money he made, what he did, who he dealt with. It was still shocking when the police came to the door, early in the morning while he was still asleep, armed and surprised when a thin woman answered the door. She'll never forget the look in their eyes. Granted, she was in bad shape, but she'd had worse. Never the less, they added spousal abuse to the list, alongside rape, possession, drug trafficking, exploitation, and murder… the list was dizzying.

She testified, once her mind was cleared and her situation brought to light for her to see. Some of the charges fell through, and he was given 25 years. It didn't seem like enough. Not for what he did. Not for who he was, what he had made her.

46. That is how old Natalie would be when he got out. And she wouldn't see 47 once he did.

So she died.

Not for real, she was too clever for that. Somewhere along the line she had met the sort of people that could get her out, give her a new life. And not the life of a prostitute, either. She had found she couldn't do that anymore. It didn't give her the wealth, the power, or the splendor she wanted. Power that she craved, but of her own violation.

So she learned how to take instead of give. The power of desire denied and walled away. How pain could be pleasure at the right hand. How to blend in with the highest reaches of society. Most importantly, how to use her brain and her body together as the perfect weapon.

She learned well, very well. Went so far as to surpass her mentors, surprising even herself with her dedication to her craft. To her new life.

The second life of Natalie Smith, subsequently know as Irene Adler. Irene Adler because it was pretty, mysterious, but most of all, memorable.

Irene Adler- dominatrix.

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Everyone keeps secrets, both dark and meaningless. Irene has plenty, tucked into every available corner of her mind and heart. Sometimes she imagines that there isn't much space left to hold all those secrets, that she will fill up with them and burst. There are moments when that's how she feels- ready to burst with them, or collapse under their weight. But she stays standing, keeps them hidden away and lies with a smirk and a blinding wit. Now, however, a swath of such secrets must come to life, a dusty corner of her soul that she refuses to acknowledge. She can't, she doesn't want to, hadn't planned to do this. But with her back against a wall and nowhere else to run, she ran to Sherlock and he deserves to know. (Mycroft, not so much. But if she is going to get help it will come from him, the man that sent her to her death will really bring her back to life this time.)

"I'm here because someone is after my life," Irene replies flatly, legs crossed and a hand making sure her son doesn't fall. She is the image of control, perfectly composed and collected. "I hadn't intended to ask for help, but I wasn't given a choice." The edge in her vice as she looks at him makes Sherlock falter, surprised because she looks _upset_ with _him_ for that. The shifts in her armor never cease to amaze him. How she can be joyous and carefree not 15 minutes ago, and an ice queen now. Fluid and unending, adaptive and imaginative in her range. (_Tell me how you became this way. How does someone wall themself off like that? Does it hurt? To hide?)_

"Be forthcoming Miss Adler," Mycroft sighs, "I don't have all day."

Irene looks at Sherlock again, eyes full of trepidation he didn't expect. There are a sparse number of moments where Irene is transparent. She deals them out like ace cards, tokens of truth in choice moments. The fact that now is one such time makes Sherlock far more nervous than any threat he can imagine. In the time he has spent with Irene he learned quickly that she is liar by nature, an inborn master of camouflage. Worry is something she hides, buries it in herself like the darkest f secrets, wrapped in bravado and charm.

When she speaks, his fears are unsurprisingly founded. Her words, however, are certainly surprising.

"Three months ago my ex-husband was released from prison."

It's statements like that that serve to make both Holmes brother's speechless. It's not an easy feat, but Irene Adler seems to have it down to a science. Both open mouthed, neither speaks for a long moment. Irene turns and fiddles with the collar of Hamish's shirt as she waits.

"You've never been married." Mycroft recomposes himself enough to break the painful silence, and Sherlock has to force himself to listen and not retreat to his mind. He wants- needs- to know, and yet, he doesn't want to. He would have been perfectly happy if that portion of her past had remained _in the past_. Of the many things he doesn't know about the woman seated on the couch with him, that was something he never expected. And it blindsides him.

"Not as Irene Adler no," she's continuing, but he isn't looking at her, "I was born as Natalie Smith, and I married at 19 and divorced at 21. I faked my death a year later. My ex's name is Damien Roth, and he blames me for his conviction, as I was the key witness. He was supposed to be imprisoned for 25 years. Evidently he was not."

Brave, she looks at Sherlock. He is still silent, still looking away from her- staring resolutely over his steepled hands at the slightly cracked wallpaper of the wall. Ice claws at her heart, pouring through her blood in millions of painful, guilty shards, and she actually shivers. (_My past doesn't change anything, darling. Understand that, for me, understand that I am not who I was then. That girl is dead, you know me now.)_ He doesn't look at her, and she turns her attention back to Mycroft.

"He has sent two separate tails thus far. I've managed to shake them both times." If her voice shakes she ignores it, digging her nails into the fabric of her dress, "I don't know how he found me, but he's a very well connected person. Was, anyway, back before the arrest. Nothing on Moriarty's scale, but significant none the less."

"And you expect me to?"

Her voice is even, sharp and firm. "Protect my son. No matter what happens to me. I intend to confront him, and hopefully you can arrest him when he threatens my life."

Sherlock leaves. He can't be there for this. He knows what she wants, that she had every intention of risking her life (and losing it) to protect Hamish, to make sure that this person who was after her never even knew their son existed. As admirable as that is, he can't stand that she would do that. Especially now that he knows who exactly is after her. A quick retreat into John's room (it seems his friend has determined it prudent to exit the flat for a while) and a search on Google reveals far more than he ever would have wanted to know about Irene's- no, not Irene, _Natalie Smith's-_ ex-husband. So much makes sense now, so many questions he had about Irene and how she came to be the way she is are answered within not even ten minutes of reading. He marvels briefly at the strength she posses. To overcome something like that… he shudders at the thought.

Everyone has scars. It seems Irene just opened hers up… and he walked away. He walked away and left to Mycroft, who will have no objections if she decides to bloody sacrifice herself. But he does. (_Dammit Irene. Trouble always seems to cling to you, my love, and you can't outrun all of it. But why didn't you ever… how could you keep this locked away so long?)_

But his shock, and yes, anger at her secrecy doesn't even begin to undercut the protectiveness he feels towards her. And he is impossibly glad that she agreed to come when he asked (although he supposes he didn't give her much of a choice in that regard) because he is not letting her go. Certainly not to simply hand herself over to a man who abused her and would kill her now.

So he closes the search and shuts the laptop, now determined to prove that he is there for her, that he will help her and that he needs her. Alive. Walking downstairs into the beginnings of what will most definitely be a long planning session is daunting, but he manages to scoop Hamish up and onto his lap, finding a strange sense of comfort in the boy. Sherlock's hand finds Irene's and he finally looks at her. "I'm not losing you."

_**R&R :) (UGH this was supposed to be published last night but the freaking motel had no wifi (I cried) so it's later. IDK when I'll have internet again right now, but chapter 10 should be much longer and... stuff. Thanks! Sorry for the delay!)**_


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